


You don't know me, either

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester UST, Gen, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Season/Series 01, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The glass is cool beneath his fingers, marked with the prints of God-knows-how-many others. Pleasure-seekers, adventurers, starving brothers; lost souls, all. When he spins it, it seems to twirl far longer than the laws of physics ought to allow. Spinning and spinning, reflecting and refracting and Sam is hypnotized, mesmerized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You don't know me, either

**Author's Note:**

> Commentfic for the prompt: [You will never pick me as yours](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/667584.html?thread=88875712#t88875712).
> 
> Set early in the show, possibly during Hookman.

Sam thinks that he’s a few years too late to be playing this game, but the way his brother smiles makes the girls lose interest in asking questions that might make him go away, such as, just for example, _Aren’t you a little old to be in college?_ The basement of the sorority house is decked out in Christmas lights, twinkling madly, and Sam is leaning in the corner letting the burnt toast smell from the ancient fog machine bounce him back in time, roller rinks and carnivals and birthday parties. It’s hard to track a spirit through smoke.

The girl they need to talk to won’t leave her gaggle of friends, won’t answer questions on her own, every time they try to lead up to the good stuff it becomes a round-table committee discussion that goes nowhere but in circles. Sam grins into his red plastic cup, Dean’s voice clear in his head squawking out his best Leia impression, _I am_ not _a committee!_ Sam sips the fruity mess someone poured for him and thinks it’s odd that it tastes better now than it did an hour ago. Thinks he should find his brother, call it a night and get out of here while there’s still a chance of waking up hangover-free in the morning.

Dean’s sitting on the floor, sprawled between the girl who might have seen something and her even prettier friend. They’re in a ring, eight or nine of them, Dean the only guy. He looks up at Sam, and his eyes gleam in the flickering light. 

“You all met my buddy Sam, right? Come on Sammy, plenty of room.”

Sam sits because he can either process Dean calling him _buddy_ or he can ignore what basically amounts to an order, but he can’t do both while he’s tipsy and Dean’s looking up at him like that, all lashes and teeth, fingers playing over the empty tequila bottle between his thighs. He sits, and he remembers being passed over for a turn to spin the bottle in middle school because _You’re new here, you can play next time._ (There wasn’t a next time, he went home to find Dean packing their duffels.) Remembers what it sounds like to hear _I’m sorry, I just don’t know you well enough_ in high school before she goes off to spend seven minutes in heaven with a boy she’s known since kindergarten. (Back at the motel Dean saw through his stoic mask and dragged him out to shoot stuff. Squeezing the trigger over and over Sam railed silently, _You. Don’t. Know. Me. Either._ )

“Sammy?” Dean nudges the bottle with his foot, it rolls across the floor towards him. “Your spin.”

The glass is cool beneath his fingers, marked with the prints of God-knows-how-many others. Pleasure-seekers, adventurers, starving brothers; lost souls, all. When he spins it, it seems to twirl far longer than the laws of physics ought to allow. Spinning and spinning, reflecting and refracting and Sam is hypnotized, mesmerized. 

“ _Sam._ ” 

Sam wonders how many times Dean has called his name. He looks up only when his brother’s big hand shoots out, halts the bottle’s dervish whirl, and Sam follows the trail, the long neck pointing true, an arrow shot straight from his heart to the black steel toe up the torn denim trail and that’s Dean, right, that’s Dean holding the smudged old bottle and Sam’s heart, both, cradled in the hands that have carried him out of so many fires.

“Dean?”

“And I think that’s my cue. Sorry, ladies.” Dean says, Dean apologizes for him, knees popping as he stands. Sam can hear Dean’s knees. Can feel the creak of finger joints when he grips Sam’s hand and pulls him up. It’s so unfair, he thinks, that he gets the bone but is denied the blood. It all comes down to blood, doesn’t it. Who’s in and who’s out. 

“Such a lightweight, Sammy, I swear. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re related.”

The outside air is a slap to his face, clear winter chill bringing the blood to his cheeks, driving the fire from his bones and he pulls away from his brother. “I can.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky,” Dean grumbles into the wind, keys fumbled in numb fingers.

“Yeah,” Sam says, heavy heart in his throat. 

Dean’s eyes cut sharp through the dark, _Watch out for your little brother, that’s your job._

“I know I am.” And he is. Lucky. To be Dean’s brother. Because Dean would never choose him otherwise. Sam folds the truth into his pockets and follows Dean into the car.


End file.
